


monsters among kings

by pancake_potch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark!Arya - Freeform, F/M, Knives, Modern AU, Torture, Underage - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-12-19 08:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake_potch/pseuds/pancake_potch
Summary: arya and ramsay have much in common





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't help it. i just had to do this ship as a modern au, multi-chap fic. these first chapters come from a one-off crack-ship thing i posted [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951039/chapters/18180199)

[](https://imgur.com/rxKWc5r)

Roose tells his son to charm the oldest Stark girl because that was a surefire way to wedge himself into the best position inside Stark Investments. Ramsay listens, bored, and halfheartedly nods in agreement.

 

Ramsay isn’t interested in the redhead. She’s beautiful in a conventional way, which he finds remarkably uninteresting. He doesn’t want the eldest girl, but knows his father is right. Truth be told, he would like to stay in his father’s good graces until some other opportunity arises.

 

So he finds himself, glass of scotch in hand, at the Starks’ holiday gala. The ballroom of their mansion is lit most elegantly and is filled with people he had known most of his life, or at least recognized by face. Although the Bolton home was large and austere in it’s own way, it didn’t compare to the grandeur of the Starks’ vast home.

 

Ramsay eyes Sansa Stark. She is a prize, he thinks. But not one he’s interested in winning.

 

“She’s just like her mother.” Ramsay turns around to find his father behind him. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

 

“Delicate,” Roose says. “Graceful. Easily broken.” Ramsay knows what he means by that, but he’s tired of delicate flowers. They provide no challenge-physical or mental. Too predictable.

 

“Yes,” Ramsay begins, “but, father-“

 

“Do your duty.” Roose says cutting off any further argument. He walks away after giving a disapproving look at the alcohol Ramsay holds.

 

Rasmay swallows what remains in the glass. He decides to wander over and begin the wooing of a girl he’s not remotely interested in, when he spies a girl with dark hair and a silver dress taking swigs out of a flask, nearly hidden behind a thick curtain. He watches as she swallows and looks around.

 

He literally stops at her loveliness. The girl is thin and pale. An exquisite, tiny thing. It’s as if someone has taken a blade and pierced his gut, dragging it upward to his heart. Oh, she is something.

 

It isn’t until he sees Robb Stark approach her and yank away the flask, giving her some sort of talking to that Ramsay realizes that the striking girl is the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark.

 

Arya.

 

The dirty, mouthy little girl he remembers vaguely from his youth has grown into a feisty, delicious young woman. He watches as she rises to Robb’s face, almost growling at him, it seems. Ramsay can tell they argue before Robb grabs her wrist to yank her away.

 

He can feel his blood boiling from toe to fingertip at how she’s manhandled. A rock of fury lodges in his throat. Such a lively thing shouldn’t be touched in such a way, unless he himself is doing the touching. Ramsay watches with a steady eye as Arya is whisked away to another room. The glass in his hand nearly shatters for how hard he’s clutching it.

 

Oh, how he wants this girl.


	2. 2

don’t try to fight the storm

you’ll tumble overboard

tides will bring me back to you

 

-Bring Me the Horizon- Deathbeds

 

“Stop laughing. You’re blowing it out.”

 

Arya laughs harder and holds her cigarette tip up to the flame again. This time it lights, and she inhales.

 

“Why are you here again?”

 

He readjusts himself against the tree trunk and lights his own cigarette. “My mother died. I know you could use a drink. It’s hard, when a parent dies.” He doesn’t explain how she died and how his father was responsible. It isn’t prudent. He was only a small child anyway, and hardly remembers her.

 

Her smile drops and she really looks at him. “Your mother? Really?” Arya turns and looks off into the distance and doesn’t ask for an explanation.

 

She drags the bottle of ’55 Glenfarclas to her lips and hisses as it burns. “Where’d you get this? It’s expensive.”

 

Ramsay takes the bottle out of her hands and takes a drink. “My father doesn’t partake, but he does keep an impressive collection.” It’s true. He keeps a remarkable cellar, mainly for important guests, but knows his father won’t notice a single bottle gone.

 

Truly, Ramsay picked this particular bottle to impress her. Arya’s family was extraordinarily wealthy, and for some reason he couldn’t name the feeling he has had since he saw her, but he wants to be an important person to her.

 

The only important person to her.

 

 

“So, what? You darted passed the butler and my mother to…”she shrugs, “sneak expensive booze to an underage girl?” Arya’s fingers tug the sleeves of her flannel down.

 

“No,” he said, annoyed. That wasn’t it at all. If he wanted under aged girls, he’d have his pick. He did have his pick, but he found the grown women were much more entertaining. More of a challenge. The bigger ones always fought harder.

 

Ramsay looks at her in the waning moonlight in the forest surrounding the Winterfell estate, and wants nothing more than to push her down into the fallen pine needles and rake his fingernails across her body.

 

Arya examines Ramsay’s countenance before grabbing the bottle from him. “Okay.” Taking another swig and a drag off her cigarette she hazily asks, “You know the Lannisters, right? Cersei Lannister? That tosspot Joffrey’s mother?”

 

He nods and watches as she shifts around, the hem of her shirt hitching up to expose a sliver of skin near her hip. It takes everything he has not to stare- or pin her down and smell that skin as he drags his tongue across it.

 

Arya watches him, but not with the longing gaze of the simpering tarts he’s used to.

 

No. She’s sizing him up.

 

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m sure that drunk fucking cow had something to do with…” she falters a bit and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve, “with my father.”

 

Yes. He’s heard the rumors. “That so?” He doesn’t say more because he wants to hear it from her.

 

“It doesn’t matter why. I don’t give a shit. But I’ve listened and watched, you know.” Of course she has. And he’s been watching her. When she’s not burning like fire- all words and spite and moxie, she’s ice- silent and still and almost…deadly if left alone in her clutches for long.

 

She crushes the cigarette into the ground next to her shoe. “I’ve overheard Sansa and that barrister talking about Robert Baratheon dying in nearly the same way-“

 

“What barrister?”

 

“Baelish. She’s sleeping with him, you know. Mother will kill her if she finds out.” Her eyebrows lift in amusement. Surely at the thought of her mother unleashing hell and fury at her older sister.

 

Ramsay snorts and motions for the bottle back. “Petyr Baelish knows nearly everything. I didn’t know that also included your sister’s virtue.”

 

“That’s vile.”

 

He just shrugs. “What do you plan on doing about it?”

 

Arya flinches. “About Sansa’s virtue? Nothing.”

 

Ramsay turns to face her completely and pulls her elbow so that she’ll meet his eyes. Oh, he can feel the ropes of her muscles move beneath his hand. “Arya Stark, what do you plan to do about that drunken fucking cow.”

 

Arya stills. “I’m going to kill her, Ramsay.”


	3. 3

“What’s this?” He asks, smile on his face.

 

“A list,” she says simply, frowning at him for a moment before waiving the waitress over.

 

Ramsay fingers the folded over parchment, not yet opening it. “A list of? If you intend for me to run errands, perhaps you should wait until we’re wed.” What he says in jest, but there’s a grain- _more than-_ of truth behind it.

 

The fascination he has with her is no longer surprising. Arya is everything he’s ever wanted in a tiny package. Everything those worthless slits that he’d wasted his time on had _wanted_ to be.

 

And now, he’s trying to charm her.

 

Ramsay’s own interests trumps his fathers, though he supposed the end would be the same. An in into the Stark clan.

 

But this is more. _So, so much more_.

 

“ _Wed?”_ She frowns, “You don’t look stupid. Don’t you think I’d have to want to _date_ you first? Oh! Ale, please.” The second half of what she says is directed to the girl taking her order.

 

“Ale? You’re underage, are you not?”

 

“I am, though I fail to see why you care. They serve me here, which is why I wanted you to meet me here.” She follows that with a polite smile at the girl delivering her mug.

 

Ramsay observes her in all her tiny, lethal glory. Arya pulls a quaff of ale before fidgeting around her pocket for a cigarette. She finds one and lifts it up to her pink lips. He leans over the table to light her, and she lets him.

 

“So open it.”

 

Ramsay takes a deep drink of his own pint, eyeing her over the rim. As he sets it back down, he toys with it a bit just watching her. Watching her hard eyes and black hair, smoke curling out of those lips he wants to pull between his teeth.

 

_Cersei Lannister_

_Joffrey Lannister_

_Ilyn Payne_

_Polliver ?_

_Gregor Clegane_

_Sandor Clegane_

“A _list_. Everyone responsible or _in_ the hunting party that my father was in.”

 

“The question mark?”

 

“I don’t know his surname, but I’ll find him.” She narrows her gaze at the inside of her drink.

 

“ _So_ , my dear Arya…what are you going to do with this,” he waves the parchment, “I mean, aside from aknowledging that these people are complete degenerates and idiots.”

 

“Those are the degenerates and idiots I mean to kill.” Arya answers with a shrug of her shoulders, as if she were responding to a question about the weather.

 

Ramsay’s heart nearly stops.

 

“Is that so? How did you get it?” He leans back against the booth, watching her smoke as she looks back at him.

 

“That?” She motions. “Easy. Do you know how many people are willing to help a wayward intern at Petyr Baelish’s office?” She smiles, “Weird, innit? Just borrow Sansa’s clothes and wobble around on high heels with big doe eyes…and there you go. A list of names in the Baratheon file, and coincidentally in the Eddard Stark file too"

 

He can’t help but smile. She’s absolutely vicious and brilliant. 

 

“So why are you telling me?”

 

She drinks again, and eyes him.

 

Arya leans over the table, resting her elbows halfway. “I’ve heard about you, you know,” she say quietly, head cocked to the side. The cigarette is still dangling from her fingers as the smoke wafts over her face. “You like knives, so I’ve heard. Funny enough,” she continues as she leans so close to him that only her knees support her on the booth, “I do too. I also like you.”

 

“Do you?” Ramsay breathes.

 

Arya’s eyes focus on his lips. “Very much. But what I want to know is,” her eyes dart to his, “do _you_ like _me_?”

 

Ramsay leans forward just enough. “Oh, my darling. I _more_ than like you.” The adrenaline is almost welcome. He hasn’t felt his way in so long. He dares to reach over to feel that hair of hers and without thinking he tugs at it, bringing her face only centimeters away from his. He can literally inhale all her exhalations. “I _like_ you so much I’m going to help you…cross all those names off of your list.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is obviously a truncated version of Arya's list based off both the show and the books. i just needed to simplify it a little for the sake of this story


	4. Polliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay has a gift for Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I decided this was going to be a stand-alone fic, I was looking forward to longer, more in depth chapters. So, here we are! And, we're getting to the meat of the story. Fair warning, we got us some torture here, folks.

Ramsay finds Polliver completely by accident.

 

He had stormed out of the house after listening to his father natter on about his older brother and how perfect he was and how _Domeric_ hadn’t wasted money by getting kicked out of Eton. Oh no, faultless _Domeric_ would never worry Father about future prospects or properly carrying on the family legacy.

 

It was nothing new, but he had grown rather tired of hearing it.

 

He had found a seat in the dingy pub and tried to distract himself from his father’s disappointment. Granted, it wasn’t surprising, but it was quite annoying.

 

It was then he had heard yells for another round from a back table full of loud- mouthed men in fake gold chains.

 

“Oi, Polliver! Grab us a few more, yeah?”

 

Ramsay’s eyes darted to the track-pants wearing, nose-picking oaf lumbering to the bar.

 

Suddenly, Ramsay’s evening became much more promising.

 

\--

 

How Ramsay had gotten Polliver to Domeric’s terraced house on the outskirts of town was easier than he thought. All Ramsay had to do was promise that poor sod that he knew where there were eager birds willing to please, for the right price. He had almost regretted his actions when the man began hiccupping and crying that his wife at home was so frigid that it was like sticking your cock between two dry pieces of toast.

 

Listening to him ramble on and on nearly made Ramsay kill him himself, honestly.

 

Though, as soon Polliver had stepped foot into the entry hall, Ramsay struck him in the back of the head with a vase. He hoped his toff of a brother wouldn’t notice that.

 

\--

 

Ramsay stopped to catch his breath. Dragging that degenerate down the stairs to the cellar and tying him to the chair had taken a bit of effort.

 

Oh, but it will be worth it.

 

\--

 

He takes a deep breath and dials her number, heart racing. _She is going to love this._

 

“What is it?” Arya’s voice is scratchy with sleep, but to Ramsay, it’s music to his ears.

 

“I have a present for you,” he answers cryptically.

 

“What?”

 

“I have a present. _For you_.” He says again in a low voice to hide his giddiness. “May I come fetch you? I’m afraid it won’t keep for long.” He smiles to himself as he glances over his shoulder at the unconscious man.

 

“I…okay.” She sounds a little hesitant, but he knows her curiosity will win out. “Meet me outside the gates.”

 

 

He’s buzzing with excitement when she climbs into the car. She’s in black denim and unlaced boots, messy ponytail flung over her shoulder. She smells like sweetness and sleep and his fingers itch to roam her body.

 

“Where are we going? You’re not going to murder me in some back alley, are you?”

 

Ramsay chuckles and wags a finger. “Now, now. Let’s not spoil your surprise.”

 

All she does is raise an eyebrow.

 

\--

 

She frowns and steps carefully over the shards of china as she enters. “Where are we?” Arya doesn’t sound worried, but a little on edge.

 

“My brother’s. Father bought it after he finished Eton, but he doesn’t ever use it,” He explains, leading her to the cellar door. “I like to think of it as mine now.”

 

Ramsay is about to open the door, but stops and whirls on her. “Now. This is a very special gift, you understand.” He slowly backs her against the wall, “And, I only did it because you are _very special to me_.”

 

Arya narrows her eyes at him, and he can tell her mind is categorizing and mapping various exit strategies and perhaps a way to incapacitate him in the process. But, he doesn’t mind.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you…” He carefully explains. He wants her to _understand_ , to know what’s in store for her. He presses himself oh so slightly against her tiny body. “But, I need you to know,” he bends down slightly and whispers, “that if you accept my gift, it means you’re _mine_.”

 

Ramsay steps back to look her in the eye, and her face is hard, piercing.

 

“Show me.”

 

He leads her down the stairs, hand in hand, the delicate bones gently resting in his.

 

“Who the bloody fuck is that? Why’ve you got a man in your cellar?”

 

Ramsay grins and takes big, showy steps as he clamps his hands down on the shoulders of his prisoner. “This is your gift!” Polliver’s eyelids flutter and he moans behind the rag stuffed in his mouth.

 

“Say hello to Polliver.” He rips the rag out, and jerks Polliver’s head to face Arya. ” _Polliver_? _Say hello.”_

Arya stares at the man in the chair and then back at Ramsay. She looks like she’s about to say something, until she’s cut off by the shouts of the drunkard.

 

_Why am I here? Who the fuck are you? Get me out of here! What do you want…blah, blah blah._

He finally stops when Arya slowly approaches him. “Are you him? Really?” She breathes.

 

“Fuck you.” He manages to wheeze out before Ramsay’s fist crashes into his face, sending him backwards, head hitting the cement floor with a satisfying smack.

 

Ramsay takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. It won’t do to lose his temper now. Polliver is still screaming from the floor as Ramsay leads Arya to a workbench. Carefully, he unrolls the canvass the holds his most priceless possessions.

 

Arya gasps at what he lays before her. “You _are_ crazy,” she manages to get out, as she runs her fingers over the several knives tucked away. She stops a moment at the Bolivian Rosewood fillet knife, but continues until she gets to a standard hunting knife, Zebra Wood with silver inlay. One of his personal favorites.

 

She pulls it out, admiring how the steel blade shines from the single light bulb in the room.

 

Ramsay has never seen anything more beautiful.

 

He directs her attention back to him by gently grasping her chin and turning her head. “Are you ready, love?” Arya smiles, and it chills him to the very marrow of his bones. He clenches his other hand to stop himself from attacking her mouth-her body-from perching her atop the workbench and fucking her until she screams his name.

 

Because she’s special and beautiful, and more importantly…she’ll be _his_. So, instead he lays a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose and reaches over her shoulder for a pair of pliers.

 

Slamming the chair upright, Ramsay gives his most charming smile. “Now Polliver, I want you to understand something upfront. You are to treat this lady with the respect she deserves. You are going to answer her questions without the foul language.” He squats down directly in front of him and gives him a look of understanding. “Because we can make this easy, or…” he waves the pliers in front of Polliver’s nose, “we can make this very, very hard.”

 

Polliver whimpers and gives a terrified nod. “Good!” Ramsay says cheerfully.

 

\--

 

Except he doesn’t make it easy, and Ramsay’s patience has run out. Polliver denies knowing the Lannisters, the Starks, the Clegane brothers.

 

It’s all so exhausting.

 

All it takes is the removal two fingernails for him to even acknowledge that he _does indeed_ know these people, but he still doesn’t admit to _his_ part. Polliver is a tough one, Ramsay will give him that.

 

Ramsay catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and watches as Arya approaches with slow, graceful steps. The knife is held behind her back with both hands, and she just looks so… _unassuming_ , and it fills Ramsay with glee.

 

“You knew the Starks, then?” She asks quietly. Polliver doesn’t answer, too busy breathing through the tears and pain. “Did you?” He nods without meeting her eyes.

 

Arya stops directly in front of him, pulling the knife out from behind. Polliver begins to hyperventilate, snot running down his face. What a disgusting, vile creature.

 

“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?” She asks it slowly, gently. He doesn’t answer and instead breaks out into heaving sobs, and Ramsay rolls his eyes.

 

“Answer the lady,” Ramsay warns.

 

“I-I-I…”

 

“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?” Arya repeats.

“I- _fuck_ -I-“

 

Ramsay doesn’t hesitate as he stalks up to Polliver, crushing his hand against the arm of the chair and pulling out another fingernail. It’s quite interesting how quick and easy they come out.

 

Polliver screams.

 

“I told you. I _told you_ not to use foul language with the lady. Do you see what happens when you don’t listen?” Confident that he’s got his point across, he looks to Arya. “Sorry, darling. Please.” He motions for her to continue.

 

“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?”

 

Polliver coughs weakly. “Yes.”

 

“Did you kill Eddard Stark?”

 

“Yes.”

 

As soon as the words leave his lips he begins screaming again. Ramsay blinks, and realizes the knife Arya had was now lodged behind the kneecap of the man who killed her father.

 

Ramsay beams. He wasn’t expecting this.

 

“Do you know who I am?” Arya demands, although whether or not Polliver can hear her above his screams, doesn’t seem to matter.

 

“I can pop your kneecap right off, you know. I will, if you don’t answer.” Ramsay is amazed at how poised and patient she is. He’s so proud of her.

 

“Do you know who I am?” Polliver manages to shake his head. Arya sighs and makes sure he’s looking her in the eye. “Eddard Stark was my father. My name is Arya Stark, and I’m the one who is going to kill you.”

 

She pulls the knife out of his leg with a bit of the struggle and leisurely makes her way behind him. She braces a hand on his sweaty forehead, ignoring his pleas. Ramsay watches, small smile on his face, silently encouraging her. He’d take over if it was needed, but he didn’t think he’d have to.

 

Arya stands, eyes resolutely staring in front of her, knuckles white on the handle. She grits her teeth, and presses the knife to the razor burned neck. There’s a slight hesitation before she slices it quickly, and more deeply than necessary.

 

Any deeper, and she would have lopped his head right off.

The clattering of the knife to the floor startles him out of the examination of the dead man in his cellar. Arya’s hands are shaking and she’s still staring in front of her.

 

He goes to her and cups her face in his hands, getting her to focus on him. “Arya. How do you feel?” He hopes he hasn’t underestimated her. Maybe spooked her in some way.

 

She steps back a bit and looks down at her blood stained hands. “I did it.” Ramsay thinks she doesn’t sound ashamed, or horrified.

 

“You did, my love.” There’s a feeling in his chest that he doesn’t have the words to describe, but it isn’t unwelcome. “I knew you could. You brought justice to your family.”

 

Arya looks up, quizzical look on her face. “Not yet. Not until I cross the names off my list. You’ll help me, wont you?”

 

Now, Ramsay full on laughs, “Of course I will. I will do _anything_ for you.”

 

“I guess this means I’m yours,” is what she says before grabbing Ramsay’s hair and dragging him to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I got the characterization right. Arya is eager to get justice for her family, yet this is the first time she's been able to do that- by taking someones life. I hope I was able to show some hesitation on her part, and not make her some crazy, knife-wielding revenge machine. The "popping off the kneecap" is somewhat stolen from the game The Last of Us, where Joel does the same thing when trying to find Ellie.
> 
> And, Ramsay? Well, he's SO MUCH FUN to write.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this seems a little clunky, but I just kind of want to get it out there without overanalyzing it too much. It's the product of too many pints and listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oc6zXSdYXm8) on repeat.

_Slitting someone’s throat is a messy business. There’s the slow gurgling of the dying’s last grasps at living, the time it takes for the person to actually die, plus the blood._

_So, so much blood._

_Ramsay has a vague awareness of this, but his attention is focused solely on Arya. As she kisses him, hot wet tongue darting in and out of his mouth, he grabs her ass and grinds himself against her._

_The pulsing need throbs through his veins, coursing through his body. His cock is taking the brunt, hard and thick and painful. Arya gasps and he takes advantage of his free mouth and moves to her neck. A few thick strands of black hair get caught in his mouth as he clamps down on her pulse._

_Her skin smells like adrenaline and fear and blood and_ power. _He closes his eyes and just breathes her in for a moment before biting down hard. Arya cries out and her tiny hands grasp at his back, clenching at his shirt._

_Ramsay can hear Polliver feebly clamp his jaw up and down a couple of times before all movement stops._

_Arya is so small he lifts her up and she wraps her legs around him._ Tiny thing _, he thinks vaguely. She pulls his head up to meet her again and he reaches with one hand to pull off her boot and then switches arms to support her while he pulls off the other._

 _As gracefully as he can manage, he sinks to his knees still holding her tightly, unwilling to let her go._ No. _Not now-_ not ever. _Lowering her onto to the concrete floor, he moves his hands to pillow her head. Arya looks at him, grey eyes challenging, threating, welcoming. “Don’t stop.” She says, no more than a harsh whisper._

_Ramsay’s shirt is flung off and there’s no protest when he yanks down her jeans. The sight of her small cunt with nothing but a pair of white panties nearly does him in. His cock, already aching, leaks out and he can feel it drip down his thigh. Ramsay can smell her- her want, despite the coppery stink of Polliver’s blood that hangs heavy in the air._

\---

The sound of the hounds outside stirs him from sleep. His cock aches and he stills in bed relishing the dream. That’s all it was, despite how much Ramsay wanted to take her last night. To have her, to claim her from the inside in celebration of her first foray into his game. Perhaps that would staid the madness Arya Stark inspires in him. Or perhaps not, it very well may increase it tenfold, where thoughts of her swirl in a fog, occupying his brain with no room for anything else.

Ramsay Bolton is a monster, of that he has no doubt. But now Arya Stark is one too.

He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over his cock, and shoots hot, sticky cum all over his bedclothes and hand at the thought of Arya Stark’s pale breasts flecked with the blood of her enemies.

\---

“Why are you pawing through your dead mother’s things?” Roose’s voice is low, but not angry. Ramsay turns around; hands in a jewelry box in her old dressing room that hasn’t been opened since she died.

“Well, I wanted-“

“Do you not receive enough from your monthly allowance that you have to rifle through belongings you have no business in?” Roose comes into the room fully, hands behind his back and looks at Ramsay expectedly.

“Father, I wanted to give someone a gift, you see. A gift to a girl that will appreciate the value of it.” Ramsay explains. Sentimentality was something neither he nor his father put much stock in, but it could be a useful tool when needed. He suspected Arya wasn’t one for jewelry and such, but he still wanted her to have something of his-from his family, his blood.

Roose furrows his brows and makes his way to the dressing table; eyeing the vast amounts of gifts he had given his late wife. “Someone worthy of a Bolton family heirloom?” He thinks a moment before carefully opening one of the small wooden drawers and pulls out two pink ivory wood boxes carved with the Bolton family crest. “These pieces were given by Royce IV Bolton to his wife on their wedding day-“

“Royce Redarm?”

“Hm,” His father nods, unperturbed at the interruption. “If my assumptions are correct, one of these might suit you. It wasn’t but two weeks after the wedding that Royce sacked and burned the Winterfell estate, two centuries ago.” Roose gives his son a hint of a smile, and Ramsay can’t help but smile back.

One box holds some sort of brooch of some kind, while the other holds the most perfect gift Ramsay has ever laid eyes on. He takes the box and lifts it closer. Inside is a pair of simple, drop shaped red garnet earrings.

Ramsay chuckles to himself. How so very perfect. He imagines Arya wearing these, two drops of blood hanging from her ears while they play their game and mark names off her list.

“Red won’t go with her coloring, son. Women care about this sort of thing, and with red hair-“

“She doesn’t have red hair.” Ramsay absently answers, attention still on the box in his hands.

Roose takes a sharp turn to his son. “We discussed this matter. You were to do as you were told. I’ll not have you give away heirlooms to some downtrodden barmaid or whore. With Eddard Stark gone, the walls of their firm will come crashing down around them. Need I tell you-“

“It isn’t the oldest daughter. It’s the younger one. Arya.”

Roose, despite his eternal unwavering calm, looks startled. “I’ll not chide you for your entertainments, but isn’t she too young for you?” Roose asks.

“Sixteen,” Ramsay answers with a shrug. “And does it matter which daughter? Outcome will be the same. Plus, she’s so…” Ramsay trails off and looks at his father. “She is so very interesting. I find myself more enamored every time I’m with her.” He upturns the box into his palm, and shoves the earrings inside his pocket. He goes to leave, when his father gets his attention.

“Be careful, son. If anything were to happen to Miss Stark so soon, tongues will wag and the authorities will start sniffing about.”

\--

Ramsay is too eager to see Arya, and goes straight away. If there were Gods above, they must have aligned the stars _just so_ for them to cross paths in this life- the two of them, together- no better match had ever been made, he was sure. Although his father suspected his motives, Roose is unaware of just how perfect Arya Stark is. _How perfect_ she is for him.

Let his father wonder and demand and attempt to force his hand for his own ends. In the end Ramsay knows he’ll do what he wants anyway, and what he wants is for him and Arya rule this world as the monsters he knows they are.

\--

He finds her sitting at a pillowed window seat in her room, one arm wrapped around her legs, the other hand holding a lit cigarette. Her back is mostly to him and he watches as she blows smoke out the open window.

“Hello, Ramsay.” She says, still not looking at him.

“Arya.”

“Who let you in?” He can feel anger start to bubble up at her words. No, not just her words, but the fact the she won’t look at him. He tries to keep his voice light when he answers. “The housekeeper.”

Arya doesn’t say anything to that and pushes her cigarette end through the opening of an empty soda can she has balancing against the windowsill. There’s a hiss as the ember falls to the bottom of the can.

He makes his way to her and perches himself gingerly on the bench next to her. Arya is still quiet, and leans her head back against the sill, while continuing to stare out at the trees outside. Now that he’s so close to her, he can see bags under her eyes, and she’s paler than he’s ever seen her.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Ramsay asks without thinking.

At this she does turn to him so abruptly that it startles him. He tries to think on what it is that kept her up all night, so he ventures a guess. “Are you afraid of getting caught? No need to worry any more on that. It’s all tidied up and squared away.” He smiles, an attempt to reassure her.

She narrows her eyes at him. “No. You know all about how to…how to take care of that, don’t you?”

He tries to keep the smile on his face. “I’ve had to do clean up a problem or two before, yes.” She nods and looks away again.

“Do you really want to know why I couldn’t sleep? What’s been eating away at me?”

“Of course, love.”

“I liked it,” is all she says.

Ramsay can’t help but chuckle. Whatever tension he could feel between them suddenly made sense. “Is that so?” He reaches over and grabs her chin, making her look at him. “Arya Stark, you and I are much alike. I’ve always known. As soon as I saw you, I knew-“

“Knew what?” She demands, though her voice is low. “Knew that I’m a monster? That I spent the night awake, wishing that I could face him as he died, so I could look him in the eye and make sure that I was the last thing he’d ever see?”

Ramsay pulls her chin to him and kisses her as hard as he can. The words she’s just said, the dark desire she’s admitted to threaten to shatter the last vestiges of sanity he holds onto. That last, small bit of humanity that masks what lies within him. Kissing her again, makes him want to tear off any pretense and break apart the world bit by bit until she’s happy. Hunt down her foes and skin them alive-

Arya pulls away. “Ramsay, I…”

Ramsay doesn’t let her finish as he takes her hand and has her stand up, facing him. “I have something for you.” Her eyes dart around as if he smuggled up a _gift_ to her childhood bedroom.

“No, no. This…” he shoves a hand into his pockets, and places the earrings in Arya’s hand and closes her fingers around them. “These are special to House Bolton, or so I’m told. I want you to have them.”

Arya slowly opens her hand and lifts an eyebrow. “They’re beautiful. I can’t take these-“

“You can. Remember when I said you’re mine? That also means that I am yours. When you wear these, it will remind you of what I’m willing to do for you. What I _want_ to do for you.” He watches as she contemplates the earrings resting in her palm.

He grins at her as she sweeps her hair away and puts one in and then goes to put the second one in, when she hesitates. She takes a step toward him and balances on her toes. There’s a tug and a pinch on his ear and when she steps back he realizes one of the garnets is there.

“We match now.” Arya says, half smile on her face.

Ramsay laughs and grabs her face with both hands. “You and I are going to burn this world to the ground. We are going to conquer and we are going to kill, and _no one_ will stop us.”

Ramsay watches her grey eyes widen, and she’s the happiest he’s ever seen her.

“Together?” She whispers.

“ _Always_ together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, theres a bit of book canon where it mentions that Ramsay occasionally wears a garnet earring in the shape of a drop of blood, and I thought how fun it would be to include that in some way. Also, a sentence or two of Roose's is from the books as well.
> 
> Royce Redarm (according to AWoIaF) also sacked and burned Winterfell during the time of kings


End file.
